


A Less Traveled Christmas

by verityburns



Series: The Road Less Traveled [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Drama, M/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/pseuds/verityburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extra to 'The Road Less Traveled': Sherlock and John's first Christmas together, set around six months after John's 'Resolution' to the main story, and eighteen months before Mycroft's 'On The Road' Epilogue. Will not make sense on its own!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**SHERLOCK P.O.V.** _

Something was wrong.

Something beyond the fact that we were in the wrong bed, in the wrong building, and in the wrong part of the country since we were at my family home instead of at Baker street.

I opened my eyes and looked down at John's sleeping face. He was curled into me this morning, both of us on our sides and facing each other, his hand cupping my neck, my arm wrapped around his torso under the quilt, our legs tangled together.

It had been far too long since we'd woken like this. Three back-to-back cases had left me napping on the sofa for the last fortnight and then, when I had finally cleared the last robbery and returned home wanting nothing more than to pull him into our bed and wrap myself around him, John had passed me on the stairs on his way to a double shift at the surgery.

Naturally, I had tried to talk him out of it, but he had proved even more stubborn than usual. Apparently, my having to sleep alone was less important than other doctors spending Christmas Eve with their families. Why people become even more irrational than usual at this time of year is beyond me, but John seemed determined to play his part. I can only be thankful that he doesn't share the nation's obsession with unnecessarily illuminating their premises.

We had picked him up straight from the surgery and he had slept for most of the two hour drive, leaving me to ignore Mycroft's smug expression by myself. Really, the longer that John and I were together, the more insufferable my brother became.

My eyes roamed across John's features now and I smoothed my hand across his back and round to his hip, frowning as my thumb brushed the edge of the last remaining dressing. The fall, a few weeks ago, had been nasty and the criminal we had been chasing at the time was extremely lucky that the police were so close behind us when we caught him. Also, that I had not realised the extent of the damage to John until after we got home.

It was unfortunate that the one scrape which had become infected was just at the front of his left hip, in exactly the place I usually rested my hand – John naturally gravitated to my left side, since this meant we both had our dominant hands free. He hadn't been able to disguise his flinch the last time I had pushed my fingers into the top of his front pocket some two weeks before and I had restrained my instinct ever since. Hopefully, the dressing could come off today; he had said 'the weekend' the last time I asked.

I still had the uneasy feeling with which I had woken, an as yet uncategorised awareness that something was wrong. Of course, we had the horrendous annual dinner for just about everyone Mummy had ever met to get through in a few hours time, the one event Mycroft always managed to coerce me into attending. But still, John was here, how bad could things be? There was a quiet cough from behind me and I whipped my head around.

My mother was sitting on the edge of the bed. The bed in which I was currently naked and wrapped around my equally naked lover. My first assumption had been correct… things were certainly less than ideal.

I glared at her, reluctant to speak and risk disturbing John, who had been so tired the night before that he'd barely woken when I led him from the car to the bedroom and who had been out like a light again before I'd even removed his shoes.

"Now, Sherlock, you'll only give yourself a headache frowning like that," she said irritatingly, although at least quietly. "I just wanted to make sure you were both up." She paused and giggled.

I rolled my eyes. To think that people accused _me_ of being inappropriate. What hope had there ever been for me, with a parent like this?

"I'm sorry, darling," she said. "But you were so completely disinterested before John, I seem to have a backlog of innuendo." She leaned forward and patted the quilt cautiously, but I didn't feel anything - she must have got John's leg instead. He stirred slightly, his body rocking against mine until he settled again.

I bit back my groan, absolutely refusing to allow myself to become aroused with my mother in the room and jerked my head towards the door in a clear invitation for her to leave.

"You need to be downstairs in fifteen minutes," she warned me, rising to her feet. "Both of you," she added. "And don't even think about being late because I'll send Virginia next time – and she doesn't live up to that name any more than her mother does to hers, it seems to be a family trait."

On that dire threat she swept out, leaving me wishing, as so often before, that the door of my childhood bedroom had a lock.

Well, if ever I was going to create some good Christmas memories for myself, it seemed that the first one I had tentatively scheduled would not be part of the set. I sighed and re-focused my gaze on the man in my arms, bringing up my right hand to stroke his face.

"John," I murmured. "John, we need to get up."

He turned his head away to yawn, stretching his arms and rotating his bad shoulder to ease it. "Excellent idea," he muttered, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him, one hand pushing into my hair and the other stroking down my spine. "Mmm… Sherlock, it seems like forever…" He started kissing along my jaw.

I was calculating in my head, but there was no way to make this work. With huge regret, I levered myself up and away from John, my body immediately feeling cold and bereft. It was too big a step to leave the bed completely; I moved to the side instead as John turned his head to face me, confusion, disappointment and lust chasing each other across his features.

"We have to be downstairs in fifteen minutes," I told him.

"Or what?" he asked, his tone making me think unaccountably of playgrounds.

"Or my second cousin Virginia will be joining us," I told him. "Which will be far from the first time she's tried to sneak into my bed and, believe me, your presence will do absolutely nothing to discourage her."

John's eyebrows were rising, but he sat up without further complaint. "I think you need to tell me a bit more about your family," he said. "At least the ones I'm about to be faced with."

* * *

He was still muttering names and connections under his breath as we walked down the main staircase together some thirteen minutes later. Virginia was half way up the first flight and looked extremely disappointed to see us.

"John," I introduced him with reluctance. "This is Virginia, daughter of my mother's cousin Serena."

John held out his hand and Virginia swooped on it, taking it in both of hers as she looked him up and down. "Well," she drawled, "I'm just dying to find out what makes you so special, John." She flicked a glance at me just as John flinched and I saw that she was scratching his palm with one of her long red fingernails. I clamped my hand over her wrists until she released him.

"Virginia," I warned her. "John is not, and never will be, available."

She raised her eyebrows and looked at John, who shrugged.

"Hi," he said shortly, taking my hand again and moving to skirt around the annoying relative in his path. Sometimes, John was just particularly perfect.

The pre-dinner drinks seemed interminable. I introduced John only when it was unavoidable, which was all too often as Mummy seemed intent on making sure everyone knew that her youngest son had managed to 'find somebody' at last. She swanned around, murmuring 'Sherlock's partner' to all and sundry, while I threw glares at Mycroft whenever the opportunity arose.

I didn't let go of John, and I could feel the residual tension from earlier buzzing beneath our skin to the point where it sometimes became difficult to focus on the other people in the room.

Finally, a little while before dinner, we found ourselves fortuitously placed next to the door to the drawing room. John glanced at the door handle, then at me and I nodded. Carefully not looking at anyone, or at each other, we each slipped though the door, finding the room shrouded in darkness, curtains still drawn against the harsh winters day. The only light was coming from the tree in the corner which, like the others which seemed to have infested every room in the house, was adorned with a preposterous number of bulbs, many of them flashing unnecessarily.

I looked at my lover as he closed the door and turned to me. "How is it so long since I've really kissed you, John?"

"You kiss me all the time," he pointed out, but I could see his pulse rate rising. It was odd. Logically, one would expect that we would have got used to each other after six months of exceedingly frequent sex - with the exception of the last couple of weeks and a few similarly busy occasions. I would certainly not have anticipated this level of desire being maintained, but I had yet to observe any indications of it waning, either in myself or in John. Indeed, in many ways it seemed to be growing stronger.

He stepped back to lean against the door, tilting his head to look up at me, and I smiled.

"Stop it," he said.

I smiled wider and he frowned at me.

"That's your 'John is short' smile," he observed with his usual accuracy – he had come to read my expressions extraordinarily well, it was quite startling at times. "I'm not short," he objected, not for the first time. "You are just ridiculously tall."

I quirked a brow at him, leaning forward and resting my hands on either side of his head. Statistically, his height was two inches below the national average and mine was three inches above, but I had discovered that facts were not always helpful in these situations.

"Do you wish I weren't?" I lowered my head to breathe the words into his ear and he shivered. "Would you like to change me, John?" I pressed my mouth to the corner of his jaw as his hands rose to my chest. "Because I wouldn't change you." I gradually worked my way down the side of his neck. "I wouldn't change a single thing about you." I reached his shoulder and gently bit down.

He groaned and slid both hands up over my shoulders, and along the sides of my neck until he could raise my head enough to hold my gaze. "You don't play fair," he said, which was hardly the revelation of the decade. "Just once, it would be nice to win an argument with you." He pushed his hands into my hair, tugging gently, and I closed my eyes, pressing into the movement. "Perhaps that's something you might give me for Christmas?" he suggested. "Let me have the last word, for once?"

I looked at him again, my gaze narrowing on his mouth as he talked. "I told you," I reminded him, leaning further until my lips were just touching his. "I don't do Christmas." I moved my head from side to side so that our mouths were lightly brushing together. "I come to this dinner ever year to get Mycroft off my back, but that is _it._ No more. And we can go straight back home afterwards."

He used his grip on my hair to force me back slightly. "Yes, you've told me you don't 'do Christmas'," he agreed. "But you haven't really explained why?" He was trying to keep focused on my eyes but his attention kept dropping to my mouth, which made him easy to distract. I ran the tip of my tongue along my bottom lip and his hands tightened.

"John," I said, in the husky voice I knew affected him the most. "John, I don't want to be _talking_." I adjusted my balance so that just my left arm was supporting me, and dropped my right hand to his hip, quickly pulling his smart shirt out of his trousers and stroking my palm over the bare skin of his back, my fingers dipping below the edge of his waistband. His lips parted and I seized my chance, taking his mouth fiercely. His head thudded back against the door as I pressed forward, tilting my head and running my tongue along the inner edge of his bottom lip before delving further to explore him more thoroughly.

It felt so good to be kissing him properly again. I resolved that two weeks was far too long for us to be constantly working, either together or separately. On the other hand, the period of enforced abstinence had certainly added an edge to this experience. I considered that for a moment with the part of my brain which wasn't completely engrossed by the taste and feel of John. Sometimes it seemed that part was getting smaller. Be that as it may, I quickly decided that abstinence was too high a price, even for this.

Although I usually took the lead, John was far from submissive and he soon responded more aggressively, moving one hand round to the nape of my neck and dropping the other straight down to my backside, tugging my hips forward sharply until I was pressed against him.

I pulled my head back and glanced quickly around – this was why I was so fond of cupboards, there was always something for John to stand on or even a bench or table I could sit him on, or lean him over, which made our height difference manageable. Although I wouldn't actually choose for him to be taller, despite the logistical difficulties. There was something about the way he looked up at me, the angle at which he tilted his head, which caused an odd ache in my chest - though it was far from an unpleasant sensation. Indeed, it seemed I had developed a particular smile in response to the feeling which John had, of course, been quick to pick up on.

Considering how seldom I had smiled before he came into my life, he certainly seemed to have an extensive catalogue now, ranging from the first one he had named, the so-called 'Can I have a hug?' smile, to his least favourite, which he described as my 'I've blown something up, do you still love me?' smile.

My eyes lit on a large nearby table, which had the added benefit that Mycroft often used it as a desk when he was at home. It would be nice to think of this the next time I saw him going through his correspondence. I pulled my hand out of the back of John's trousers and reached round to turn the key in the door by which we had entered, then put both my hands on his hips and pulled him further into the room, lowering my head to kiss him again as I turned us both and started backing him towards the table.

He was reaching behind himself with one hand, clearly aware of my destination and ready to lever himself up, but that was too slow for me. I waited until he had one hand supporting himself then bent forward, wrapped my hands around his thighs, and simply lifted him. He growled at me, as he always does when I pick him up, and bit my bottom lip quite hard. He often does that too. Perhaps, one day, he might realise that neither of those things are in any way a deterrent to me – in fact, quite the reverse.

In the meantime, I moved my hands back to his hips and pulled him to the edge of the table, stepping forward between his legs so that we were pressed together. We both groaned. Perfect.

I leaned my forehead against his for a moment, just revelling in the contact, rocking my hips gently against him as he brought both hands to my shirt and started undoing the buttons, far enough to expose my chest to his eyes. Then he spread it open and placed his fingertips on my shoulders, before starting to drag them downwards, skirting my nipples at first, before abruptly changing direction and rubbing his thumbs over them.

My whole body shuddered at the sensation and I slipped one hand around his waist, but moved the other to the back of his head as I started kissing him again. He was moaning into my mouth, pushing back against me and still teasing both of my nipples with his hands, rubbing them, rolling them between his finger and thumb, pinching them until I had to release his mouth in order to tip my head back and just focus on the sensations, a worryingly loud groan escaping my lips as he persisted, driving me on, pushing my incessant thoughts further away until the constant noise which filled my head, the static which drove me mad at times, was just a distant hum and there was nothing but John in my world.

I had to move this along or I was going to embarrass myself. I kissed him again, waiting until he had wrapped one leg around me and was lost in the sensation, then pushed him backwards, leaning against him so that his hands were trapped between us, and tightening my grip so that I could support his weight. He resisted for a moment, tensing his abdominal muscles, but I pressed on and he relaxed, allowing me to lower him to the table.

I pushed up his shirt and unfastened his belt and he groaned, then propped himself up on his elbows, the flashing lights from the tree creating a pattern over his face as he stared at me, different features being illuminated moment by moment. I wondered how that would look over his whole body.

"Sherlock, wait," he said, his voice breathless and clearly wanting. "We can't do this now and we certainly can't do it _here,_ with half the landed gentry of the county right next door."

I moved my hands lower, stroking him through the material of his trousers and he gasped, his head falling back. "Sherlock, stop. Really," he said, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. I lowered my head and started kissing along the edge of his waistband, surreptitiously unfastening his top button as I went.

It took a few seconds before the rattling of the door registered, but then John sat up sharply and pushed me away, sliding off the table and tucking his shirt back into his trousers. I frowned.

Focusing, I could hear my mother's voice muttering, "Oh, for goodness sake," then the door rocked slightly – perhaps she was leaning against it. Her voice sounded again, louder this time, "No, they're not here, Virginia. Perhaps they stepped onto the terrace?" I couldn't hear the response, but then Mummy spoke again. "Yes, I know it's freezing. Don't worry, Mycroft will find them. After all," she added, and there was a slight thud, as if she had kicked back at the door, "it's time for Christmas Dinner."

John jumped as the door in the far corner opened, the one which led to the library. It seemed he hadn't realised there was another door, hidden as it was behind the festive monstrosity. He looked at me accusingly and I shrugged. What did he want me to say? Two weeks was too long.

Mycroft walked in and rolled his eyes. "Did it have to be my desk, Sherlock? Really?" He shook his head. "Hello, John," he added, but John didn't respond other than to turn even redder, which I hadn't actually thought was possible.

"Virginia won't be far behind me," he warned. "You'd best fasten your shirt if you don't want a repeat of the bathroom incident."

I grimaced and set to work, noticing that John looked even more unhappy – he should be grateful that I'd managed to keep him away from my family for this long.

* * *

Christmas Dinner dragged on indefinitely, accompanied by the ongoing racket of 'bangs' from supposedly festive crackers, inevitably resulting in a deluge of alleged 'jokes' which amused only those who had made an early start on the sherry.

There were many new irritating questions this year, including several enquiries as to whether I was entering into the 'Spirit of Christmas' now that I had someone to buy for; which struck me as both extremely illogical and also offensive to my immediate family, both of which points I attempted to make clear.

I took John's hand under the table. He didn't object, but seemed subdued - I was not surprised. This sort of forced interaction with people one spent the rest of the year quite reasonably avoiding was a sad trial indeed. I pictured our flat in my mind. Next year, I would stand firm against Mycroft, I determined. It had been over twenty years after all, and Mummy seemed fine. Enough was most definitely enough. I squeezed John's hand.

On the plus side, Virginia had been seated at the other end of the room, although she suddenly appeared opposite us just at the end of the meal, slipping into Great Aunt Adelaide's seat while she was off topping up her flask again.

She warmed up with a barrage of what she no doubt felt were 'pleasantries', before moving in for the kill. "So, John..." She batted her false eyelashes at him, flicking her unnaturally blonde hair back over one fake-tanned shoulder. "What's your secret?"

I glanced quickly at John, who looked less than impressed. "I'm sorry, what?" he enquired, politely. "I don't think I have much in the way of secrets, certainly not from Sherlock." There was an odd note in his voice which drew my attention, but his expression was bland.

"Ah, yes… Sherlock," she replied, smirking. "Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Her gaze ran over me and I curled my lip. "Untouchable, uninterested Sherlock." She turned back to John. "Tell me, John..." She leaned forward over the table, the front of her dress weighted down by a ridiculous quantity of silicone. "How did you worm your way into my dear cousin's bed?"

There were a few gasps from the surrounding chairs and I opened my mouth on an angry retort, but John straightened his shoulders and looked her in the eye. "I find waiting to be invited is generally a good tactic," he replied, making his feelings on her behaviour perfectly clear.

Her eyes narrowed malevolently and I tensed, glancing at Mycroft in warning. Virginia was a superficial bitch but she was sharp, and she had an unerring instinct for which buttons to push.

"Do you know why he hates Christmas, your Sherlock?" she asked John now, and his questioning glance to me only confirmed her suspicions. She pressed on. "Has he told you why you won't be getting a present? Why there will be no tree in your flat? Why he'll be on his way back to London before the last coffee is drunk?"

John was pale, but he answered. "Christmas is irrational." He repeated the only answer or explanation I had ever given him.

Virginia laughed. "Oh, it's irrational, all right," she replied. "It's..."

"VIRGINIA!" My mother's voice silenced the room, but she was smiling sweetly. "Virginia, my dear, I think we're ready to move into the main parlour." She rose to her feet and walked towards us. "Won't you join me?" She linked their arms together as Virginia reluctantly stood. "Now, you must tell me how your dear sister Temperance is managing at that dreadful clinic..." They drifted away and people began to follow, but John didn't move.

"John?" His head turned towards my voice, but he wasn't really focused on me. I took his elbow. "Come on." I tugged and he rose to his feet, then Mycroft was there.

"I need to leave in an hour." His eyes were repeatedly flicking to John, who looked blank. "Why don't you both go and get packed? I'll make sure you're not disturbed." He held my gaze for a moment. ' _Fix this!_ ' his look said. I nodded.

* * *

As we walked up the stairs, I was becoming anxious. I had noted before that while physical trauma or danger made John more alert and enhanced his concentration to something approaching even my levels, emotional upset seemed almost to shut him down, especially if it were connected to me.

There had been disagreements over the last six months, of course there had - outright arguments, even. There had been several times when John had withdrawn from me, becoming quiet and remote. If I did it, he would say I was sulking, but it would be inaccurate to use that term with him, it was more as if he were... re-evaluating. He always shook it off eventually, although sometimes there was a shadow in his eyes for days afterwards.

I looked at him again. This was a bad one.

When we got to my room he seemed to recover a little. "So, what was she going to tell me?" he asked, his tone still quiet. I would have preferred belligerent, in the circumstances, but I was glad he was talking.

I clicked the door closed and turned to him. "Something to do with my father, I would imagine."

He looked taken aback, which was understandable as I had never mentioned my father before.

"My father left at Christmas," I explained. "Christmas Day, to be precise. I was ten, almost eleven years old. Mycroft was eighteen and away at University, he hadn't come home for the holidays – the only year he ever missed."

John sat down on the edge of the bed. "Your father left?" he repeated. "Just... walked out?"

"He was gone when we woke up. There on Christmas Eve, gone on Christmas morning. Nothing suspicious about it – he left a note."

"What did it say?" John sounded as if he were afraid to hear the answer.

I shrugged my shoulders. "No idea. Mummy wouldn't tell me." I thought back. "I looked for it, of course. Natural curiosity." It was strange to remember how fixated I had been on it at the time. I shook my head. "But she must have given it to Mycroft because I never found it."

"Maybe she burned it?" John suggested. "She might have been angry."

"Perhaps," I agreed, but I didn't think it was likely.

He thought for a moment, then looked up at me. "So this is why you don't like Christmas?"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't be ridiculous - of course not. Christmas is completely irrational. The excessive consumerism makes little enough sense if you're a Christian, but for an atheist it's beyond ludicrous. The information about my father is, no doubt, what Virginia was going to tell you, but her assumption is erroneous. _Your_ response was the correct one."

"So you don't think your father leaving has anything to do with it?"

I moved to sit beside him, maintaining a slight distance for now. "My father leaving is simply the reason I come back for this horrendous family dinner," I explained. "Mycroft forces me into it, says we have to be here for Mummy's sake – points out that he's organised all manner of international crises around this one commitment, the least I can do is make the trip from London once a year."

"That sounds like Mycroft," John agreed, but he still had that blank look on his face. I reached for his hand, but he stood and took a few steps away before I could touch him.

"You don't have to tell me everything." He spoke with his back to me. "That would be unfeasible anyway, with everything that goes on in your brain." He made a sound like a laugh, but not. "You're entitled to privacy, to have secrets if you want to. But some things – things that other people know... If we're going to go forward with this relationship then I should know those things too."

I could feel my face paling. _If_? _IF_? This was way beyond 'Not Good'. I rose to my feet. "John, I..." I trailed off, not sure what I wanted to say, and he turned to face me.

"I don't have secrets from you, Sherlock, it's impossible." There was a slight flicker of his eyelid which made me wonder. "You knew almost everything important about me within a few days, you can't help it - and that's fine with me, it's not a problem."

He ran a hand through his hair. "But I can't do that. Oh, I can work out how you're feeling, and often why you feel it - sometimes better than you do, I think. But I can't deduce the facts. I might be able to figure out that there's something I don't know, but that's it. I only know what you tell me, can only share in what you choose to reveal to me, only walk through doors you open for me." He paused and looked at me, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

"You did it on purpose earlier, didn't you?" He held my gaze for a moment before looking down. "When we were in the drawing room and I asked you again why you didn't like Christmas, you deliberately distracted me. You used your knowledge of _me_ to keep me from learning about _you._ You manipulated me, Sherlock." He turned away. "And then you made me feel like a fool."

I didn't know what to say. What had happened in the past surely had no bearing on our relationship? It was irrelevant. "Can we go home?" I asked him. "Will you come home with me?"

He shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked small, but I didn't feel like smiling. "Sure, let's go home." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Think I'll get changed first."

He moved to the wardrobe and pulled out jeans and a jumper, starting to unbutton his shirt without seeming aware that I was watching him. As he pulled off the smart trousers, I noticed the edge of the dressing sticking up from the waistband of his underwear.

"John." I spoke softly but he still jumped, as if he were lost in a world of his own. I pointed to the dressing. "Can that come off now? You said the weekend."

He looked down and his face tightened. For a moment he actually looked as if he might cry – surely the wound could not be that bad? Had the infection spread? I stepped forward worriedly and his head jerked up. He held my gaze briefly, then his mouth twisted. He pushed down the side of his boxers to expose the whole dressing and beckoned me forward. "You may as well do the honours."

I was only too eager to inspect the damage for myself and quickly moved forward, dropping to my knees in front of him. I gripped the corner of the dressing and started to ease it off, but John grunted.

"Just rip it," he said, so I did, keeping his flesh taut with my other hand in order to minimise the pain. The dressing had left a sticky square on his skin, but there was a clear mark still visible in the centre. I stared at it. It wasn't a scar, or a scrape, infected or otherwise. John had managed to keep a secret from me, after all.

I glanced up at him. He was biting his lip and didn't meet my eyes. I looked back down. It was a tattoo – just a small one, perfectly plain, in neat black ink, right at the place on his hip where my hand so often rested. It read: ' _SH_ '.

"Merry Christmas," said John.

* * *

[](http://br0-harry.livejournal.com/2804.html)

****Artwork**** :

 __[ _Merry Christmas_](http://br0-harry.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=24#/d360v50) by  [br0-Harry](http://br0-harry.deviantart.com/)

 


	2. Chapter 2

_**JOHN P.O.V.** _

"You hate tattoos." Sherlock sat back on his heels in front of me, sounding as shocked as I had ever heard him.

He glanced up and I nodded. His gaze returned to the ink, one big hand still curved around my hip where he had held on while peeling back the dressing.

"You say they're unsanitary. An unnecessary disfigurement."

It always amazed me how he could churn out verbatim quotes from one-off comments I had made, sometimes months previously. Considering his attitude towards extraneous information, I suppose it was flattering that he never seemed to delete anything to do with me... even though I found it annoying at times.

He looked up when I didn't reply, and I nodded again. His eyes were immediately drawn back to the tattoo, he seemed almost transfixed by it. He raised his left hand as if to touch it, but halted the movement before he made contact, meeting my gaze again.

"May I?"

"Sure." I shrugged. "It's _your_ present."

He froze for a moment, then started tracing over the letters with his fingertip, the thumb of his right hand holding my boxer shorts out of the way so they didn't slip back up and cover his initials.

"You already have scars," he murmured, almost to himself. "Wounds earned in battle. Marks on your body which mean something; sacrifices made, risks taken..." He was leaning closer to me, any minute now he was going to whip out his magnifier.

"But this..." He must have decided to take me at my word regarding ownership because he suddenly rose to his knees, leaned forward and kissed the mark, then I felt the tip of his tongue running over it, no doubt able to feel the raised edges of his name, now permanently etched into my skin.

I pulled back. That felt a little bit too good and I wasn't ready to take that road with him just yet.

He lifted his head obediently, but didn't loosen his grip. "This, you did for me," he said, with a new smile; it was a blend of pride, ownership and lust, but it faded quickly.

"You did it because I don't 'do' Christmas," he said slowly. "But you do, don't you, John?" His brain was racing ahead as always, but it tended to circle when it came to emotional issues. He knew the ones he needed to – he could identify a hundred ways that love could drive someone to murder, but when it came to something like this he often floundered, and if it involved his own feelings he struggled even more.

"You wanted to have a proper Christmas, and I wouldn't let you buy me a gift; I ridiculed the whole idea." He was watching my face now, looking for clues, but I don't think he was getting very far; I could feel that my expression was blank. I was still pretty numb from the thoughts which had been running through my head, mostly since Mycroft walked into the drawing room and I realised that Sherlock had deliberately not told me there was another door, and going rapidly downhill from there, but this had been building up for months.

His gaze had switched back to my hip. "So you did this," he said, his voice still bearing traces of his shock. "Even though you hate tattoos." He sat back on his heels again and looked up at me. "What do you want to know?"

I raised my eyebrows. "What _don't_ I know?"

He grimaced; impasse.

"Look, I think we need to talk," I said, although it was going to be very difficult to express my concerns in a way he could understand. "Let me just get dressed."

His hand tightened immediately, long fingers digging into my hip before he deliberately relaxed them. He appeared to be on the brink of suggesting that I just wear my jumper but wisely restrained himself, stroking his thumb over the tattoo one more time before rising to his feet and stepping back, although he kept watching until I pulled my jeans up.

Part of me wondered if I should instigate this discussion on Christmas Day, having just heard about his previous trauma - and it _was_ trauma, whether he admitted it or not. I hadn't been joking when I'd claimed to sometimes understand his feelings better than he did. But then I thought of the many times I'd tried to raise these issues with him and the equal number of times I'd completely failed to do so. I couldn't miss this opportunity. I would just have to hope that it went well and wouldn't be another log on his 'I hate Christmas' fire.

I looked around, wondering where was best to do this and he reached out, linking just the tips of our fingers together.

"John?" There was a new note in his voice which made my head jerk round to face him. "Is that code?" he asked, his eyes searching my face. "I don't know about these things, but I've read that, 'We need to talk' is code; that it means something else." He was very tense. "Does it?"

I stared at him. "When are you going to stop reading those ridiculous websites?" I demanded, starting to feel a bit better in the face of his obvious anxiety, then wondering if that made me a bad person. "Lucky for you, I don't speak 'pubescent girl'. Lucky for you, when I say 'we need to talk', that's exactly what I mean." I thought about that for a moment. "Well, at least _I_ need to talk, and I need you to hear me."

He still looked worried, but he raised his eyebrows slightly at that.

"Remember what you said to Lestrade that time about seeing and observing?" I asked, and he nodded. "That's what I mean. I know you listen to me, but you don't always hear what I'm saying."

He looked confused. "You said 'if', John. You said ' _If_ we are going to go forward with this relationship'."

I thought back. "I suppose I did. But my emphasis was on the _go forward_ , not the _if_. I meant, 'Are we going to improve our relationship or let it stay the same?' not 'Are we going to proceed at all?'."

He was watching me closely. "So you're not thinking about leaving me?" he checked, his fingers tightening on my hand.

I shook my head and opened my mouth to speak, but then my breath huffed out in a rush as he suddenly wrapped his arms around me and squeezed tightly, burying his face in my neck.

"You scared me," he muttered, and I could feel his heart beating faster than normal against my chest.

It was so rare for him to admit to any vulnerability, I was quite startled, and I automatically started stroking his back until his grip relaxed a little. When I got my breath back, I tried again. "We _definitely_ need to talk."

He pulled away slightly to look at me, then glanced at the bed. "Can this be a horizontal conversation?"

I frowned at him, stepping back until he was at arm's length, and he shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything like that. I just mean... if we have to talk, we may as well be comfortable?"

I considered his words, then discounted them and looked at his body language instead. He was still anxious, I really had scared him. Whatever issues I had, I knew full well that losing me was probably the only thing he was really afraid of. There was no way I would ever leave him – I thought that would have been obvious from the tattoo but, as I had often thought before, it seemed that I was the only case where he tended to doubt the evidence. Apparently, emotions and deductions don't always go well together.

Taking his hand, I led him to the bed, where we settled facing each other on top of the covers, his right hand still linked to my left, but not so close that we couldn't focus. I was beginning to feel the familiar butterflies in my stomach, the ones which started flapping every time I considered opening this discussion, but this time I wasn't going to let them rise up and choke me.

[ ](http://cardboardram.deviantart.com/art/BBC-SH-TRLTXmas-245420116)

Artwork: [ _BBC SH - TRLTXmas_](http://cardboardram.deviantart.com/art/BBC-SH-TRLTXmas-245420116) _by_ [_Zenyr_](http://zenyr.livejournal.com/)  


"What happened earlier, when Virginia made a point of knowing things about you which I didn't, do you understand why that upset me?" I started.

He looked torn. "Immediate and honest answer, Sherlock." I knew he would get the reference to the conversation we'd had when we first got back together after those hellish weeks apart, and hoped it would get him into the right frame of mind.

His fingers tightened a little, but he nodded his agreement. "Not really," he admitted. "I will tell you whatever you want to know, but I don't see what bearing things that happened in the past have on our relationship now. Surely such trivia is irrelevant to our lives together?"

I regarded him curiously. He didn't seem to find it remotely odd to refer to being abandoned by one of his parents as 'trivia'. "So you didn't tell me about it before, because you consider it irrelevant?" That didn't tie in with the way he had distracted me.

His expression clouded a little even as he nodded, and I waited while he considered my question. "No, I..." He sounded surprised by what he was saying. "I do think that my history is largely irrelevant, but no. I didn't want you to know about this." He paused. "I'm sorry, John."

I dropped it. Having finally worked myself up to having this talk with him, the last thing I wanted to do was get side-tracked into a discussion about his father. With a bit more thought, I could probably work quite a bit of it out anyway.

There must be some proper way to start one of these conversations, to bring up concerns which have built up over the course of a relationship, but I didn't know what it was... I held onto his hand and jumped in.

"I don't like it when you pick me up," I said.

He looked startled. "I know that. But I..." He shrugged one shoulder. "I like the growling." His expression was distinctly sheepish, but then his gaze sharpened. "But you don't always bite me... sometimes you seem to enjoy it?"

"OK, yes," I agreed. "Occasionally, when it's one of those urgent, desperate times when we just can't get at each other fast enough, then it can be quite... hot," I admitted. "But I'd rather not have it at all, than feel like a toy. You're very dominant. And I don't mind that really, I'm happy in my role, but sometimes you just steam-roller over me - like before, when you pushed me down on the table and didn't let me support myself. It makes me feel lesser, as if you're just overwhelming me and I don't have a say." I was approaching my main problem.

"If I say 'No', or 'Not now', that doesn't mean 'Persuade me'," I told him. "You can read me so well that you tend to ignore what I'm actually saying. It's insulting." I looked at him steadily, wanting him to see how serious I was. His eyes were focused on my face, occasionally flickering down my body, no doubt checking all the signs he used for his apparent mind reading.

"I know that sometimes the information is contradictory, like in the drawing room, obviously you could tell that my body wanted you, that _I_ wanted you." I released his fingers and stroked my hand up and down his arm, knowing that this was going to upset him. "And I'm not denying for a moment that you are right. I did want you. I _do_ want you. Always." I drew a deep breath. "But 'No' means 'No', Sherlock. If I say 'Stop', then you should stop - I need you to pay more attention to what I'm actually telling you, to _hear_ me, otherwise," I shrugged, "it's like I don't have a voice."

His face had paled. "You mean 'choice', don't you? It's like you don't have a choice... Do I _force_ you, John?"

I sighed. This was why I had put off saying anything for so long. However cool and rational Sherlock might be, he was always dramatic. "No, of course you don't _force_ me. As if you could!" I scoffed, which drew a small smile. "I could definitely take you."

He put his hand on my waist, glancing at my face to check it was OK. "Any time, John." He deliberately used that husky voice which seems to slide down my spine. "You can take me any time."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "That's the other thing. Manipulation. Deliberately using that voice, distracting me, misleading me - you locked that door in the drawing room to give me the impression we were reasonably private, but you knew full well there was another door in the corner." I remembered the shock I had felt when Mycroft just walked in on us.

"You don't treat me as an equal. I know that in most ways, we aren't. God knows, you're a million miles above me in intellect, intelligence, all of that." I waved my arm to indicate his superiority. "But in this..." I put my hand over his heart. "In this, we should be even." I looked at him. "I know that you want me. And I do believe that you need me, even that no one else will do..." I trailed off and lowered my eyes. "But I think that I love you more."

"John!" His voice was shocked. "John, you... you're everything." His hand tightened, and I realised that it had slipped down from my waist and was resting over my hip again. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise..." He paused for a moment. "I know that I am possessive of you."

"You are, and that's OK," I told him honestly. "I don't mind that really, as long as you're not unnecessarily rude to people. If I minded, I never would have done this." I indicated my hip, which distracted him immediately. "But it's too one-way... you want to have all of me, but you'll only share part of yourself. You deliberately keep things from me, whether it's an important part of your history, or the fact that there's a door in the corner, but you resent it when I go to the surgery."

He was starting to look a bit sulky, now that his anxiety was fading. "Do you think I never want you when you're on a case?" I asked him. "Do you think I don't miss you in our bed when you're working, or stop myself from approaching you if you're focused on something, afraid that you'll be angry with me for distracting you?

"Earlier, you said you wouldn't change me. That was probably just a line, but it made me think..." He was shaking his head at the 'just a line' part, but I had my doubts. "You haven't needed to change me, because I've changed myself. I've adapted myself to what you wanted, fitted in with what you needed." His thumb was stroking right over the tattoo, I wondered if he was aware of what he was doing, or whether it was going to become the equivalent of a comfort blanket for him.

"I think I'm a little intimidated by you, to be honest," I admitted. "By your genius, by your importance. It's like you're the star attraction and I'm just the supporting act. You're more significant than I am, so I should be the one to adapt."

He opened his mouth to object but I put my finger over his lips. "I'm almost done," I said. "Can I just get this out? It's been festering for a while now and I'm feeling better already just for saying it." He nodded and subsided, but edged closer to me on the bed, abandoning my hip at last to start stroking his hand up and down my back.

"It didn't matter so much when we were just friends, because I had other areas of my life where I was in charge... and I still have the surgery, of course, that's still there." I thought for a moment. "But I think, in terms of self-worth, I'm starting to lose myself a little bit and I think that sometimes I resent you for that, even though it's my own fault for putting up with it and not saying anything."

He raised his eyebrows, silently asking if he could talk now and I nodded. "How long have you been feeling like this?" he asked. "And why haven't you said anything before?"

I shrugged, feeling embarrassed. "It's been building up gradually and I _have_ tried but..." Why _was_ it so hard?

"This is the first time I've been in a relationship that didn't have a woman in it," I realised. "They're so much better at this communication business; I've never had to instigate it before." I thought back over past conversations. "It's a lot harder than it looks. I'll have more respect the next time I'm..." I trailed off.

He was glaring at me. "The next time you're _what_ , John?" he asked coldly.

I thought quickly, even though it was clearly a waste of time as he could see the wheels turning. "Next time I'm talking to Harry," I finished lamely.

He looked at me, then his gaze flicked downwards. "I want to see it again."

* * *

It was fifteen minutes before Mycroft tapped on the door, and we pretty much spent them kissing - mostly also with Sherlock's hand down my trousers, although not for the usual reason.

He hadn't really responded to what I'd said, but then again, I didn't expect him to. Sherlock wasn't one for talking about his emotions, he would barely admit to feeling any, other than that he loved me, which he announced quite often. Given our history, I might have suspected that he had some kind of schedule worked out, but he often looked quite surprised when he said it - as if he wasn't quite sure where the words had come from or what they thought they were doing emerging from a logical person such as himself.

I knew that he had heard me. I knew that my concerns would be percolating somewhere in his brain, and just to have voiced the worries which had been sitting on my chest for months was a huge relief. I felt happier and more relaxed than I had in a long time.

There had been no ultimatum in my words and there never would be. Virginia could keep her 'bathroom incidents' and her sniping; Sherlock and I were together and that was that.

When the knock sounded, Sherlock slowly drew his head back. "Ready to go home?"

I nodded, and he suddenly got a gleam in his eye, then slithered down the bed until he was level with my tattoo – well, _his_ tattoo I suppose. I heard a soft click but didn't pay much attention since he was running his tongue over the mark again, then he kissed it, straightened my underwear and fastened my jeans for me.

"Much as I would love to show this off," he said. "No-one else gets to see you like this."

He went to answer the door as I finished throwing our things into the bag he had packed for us. As usual, his lubricant to underwear ratio was ridiculously high. I zipped up the bag and turned towards the brothers, who were both watching me.

Mycroft's expression seemed to relax infinitesimally when he saw my face – I had found that I could read him slightly better now, as I learned Sherlock. They certainly had more in common that my boyfriend would ever admit.

He turned to his brother. "I take it you liked your present?"

Sherlock glowered at him and I rolled my eyes – I should have known better than to think I could keep a secret from _both_ Holmes brothers. The fact that I'd managed one was nothing short of a miracle.

* * *

The journey home started off normally enough, in another anonymous black limousine. Mycroft was going through some work in the seat across from us and we were sitting side by side, with Sherlock to my right. He hadn't let go of my hand since we left his room, but soon his fingers started moving, his thumb tracing circles against my palm. After a while, it became hard to focus on anything else.

I shifted in my seat and he turned his head to look at me. I looked back, my gaze roaming over his face, the wide-set eyes, the pale skin, the incredible cheek bones. I found my attention lingering on his mouth and his lips parted, his breathing sounding shallower. I met his eyes again. They looked hungry.

There was a level of tension rising in the car which took me by surprise, since the kisses we had shared in his room had been more affectionate than passionate, designed to reassure rather than inflame. His eyes were having a strangely hypnotic effect on me, they almost seemed to be getting bigger... I realised that I was leaning towards him, or was he leaning towards me? I couldn't tell.

A rustling of papers caught my attention and I glanced round just in time to catch Mycroft's smug expression as he lowered his head. A tug on my hand pulled my focus back to Sherlock, who then released me in order to slide his arm diagonally around my body, easing me forward a little so that he could squeeze his hand between my back and the seat to end up, unsurprisingly, resting on my hip again.

I leaned against him, feeling the heat of his body all the way up the side of my thigh and along my arm. Not enough. I reached my arm forward, out of the way, putting my hand on his leg, then edged that little bit closer.

His hand slipped into the top of my jeans pocket as usual, but his fingers didn't rest and I was shocked to suddenly feel them against my bare skin, pushing under the waistband of my underwear to resume their normal position. How had he done that? I looked down, but couldn't see any difference. My jeans were still fastened, they looked exactly as normal.

I turned my head to look at him and he quirked a brow. I remembered the click sound just before he had fastened my trousers and realised that it had been his penknife - he must have sliced through the lining of my pocket. His fingers were moving now, stroking over his initials and he leaned his head down to whisper against my ear. "Do you want me to stop?"

I couldn't remember him ever asking me that before. I shook my head, wondering how long it would be before it was no longer safe to carry things in the left hand pocket of _any_ of my trousers.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_**SHERLOCK P.O.V.** _

John turned his body slightly away from me, then leaned back, the angle giving my hand more freedom as I stroked the tips of my fingers over his... no, _my_ tattoo. I knew it was unlikely to feel raised for much longer – I would have to make myself fully aware of its exact location from every angle of approach before it became unidentifiable by touch alone.

I was still processing all the things he had said earlier and felt distinctly shocked by some of it, especially the phrase _'No' means 'No'_ , which was echoing in my head in a way that suggested it would be with me for a long time.

However, nothing compared to the fear which had struck me when he said 'we need to talk', losing John is probably the only thing of which I am really afraid. I knew I couldn't be an easy person to be involved with, but I would do my best to respect what John had told me - and also to make sure that he didn't let things go this far again if he were unhappy. I didn't agree with everything he'd said, but the fact that he believed it was enough. I lowered my head to rest against his. I could not risk John.

Our kisses in my room had been a great relief, setting the worst of my worries to rest, but now the last two weeks were catching up and I wanted more... much, much more. It was strange to think that I had lived for so many years without feeling any sexual interest at all, yet now, with John, two weeks seemed like an outrageous length of time. A corner of my mind was replaying the last time that John had topped and I wondered if I should suggest that again; if he might prefer it, after what he had said.

I hoped not, because I knew full well that as soon as I got him stripped and saw that tattoo again, I was going to want to take him - and not in a quiet way. I shifted a little in my seat, attempting to redirect my thoughts, but with John's skin under my hand, the heat of his body against my side, his smell, the movements of his breathing, the way his pulse sped up when I spoke in his ear, it was impossible.

The opportunity available via the new access point in his jeans was tempting and I cautiously slid my fingers a little further, knowing that his jumper would cover my movements.

"Stop," he whispered, and I did. I moved my hand back to its original location and he turned his head again, looking up at me. 'I love you,' was written all over his face. 'I want you' was in the grip of his hand upon my leg and the racing of the pulse I could see beating in his throat. 'I'm yours' was etched upon his hip. I pressed my lips against his temple and checked my watch again... how much longer could this journey possibly take?

Ten minutes later, I was mentally running through the sixteenth version of what I might do to John as soon as we got home, when Mycroft tapped on the driver's partition until it rolled down slightly.

"Code seven," he said. "Straight to Baker Street." The car accelerated smoothly as he turned back around, muttering under his breath. "The Ministry can wait a little longer. 'Queen and Country' is one thing, but no-one can be expected to put up with _this."_ For once, we seemed to have wiped the smugness right off his face... Christmas was looking up.

* * *

We stared at each other as the car drove away, Mycroft having virtually thrown our bag out after us.

"Inside," John said, which certainly seemed the best plan. He moved to unlock the door, while I picked up the bag and followed, unable to resist pressing in behind him and kissing the side of his neck. It took him three attempts to get the key in the lock... there was no way he was going on top tonight.

I desperately wanted to grab him as soon as we got through the door, but I didn't want to have to stop once we'd started - there had been quite enough of that for one day. He seemed to be of the same mind and quickly led the way up the stairs, bypassing the lounge and going straight to the bedroom – we had used my room at first, but John was more inhibited when he was worried that Mrs Hudson might hear us. The relocation had proved an excellent move.

He held the door open for me, then closed and leaned back against it, watching me as I dumped the bag on the floor, switched on the lamp, and turned to face him.

We stared at each other, then I took off my jacket and started unbuttoning my shirt, his eyes following the progress of my fingers, staring avidly at every inch of skin as it was revealed. I pulled the shirt out of my trousers but didn't remove it, just waiting.

After a moment, he caught on, and stood up straight, grabbing the hem of his jumper and pulling it over his head. Normally he wore a shirt underneath in the winter, I had packed one for him, but he had forgotten to put it on. I felt a pang when I remembered why, but I couldn't regret the result as my eyes ran over his upper body now.

Everything about him was appealing to me, from his shorter height, even though I guarded my expression most carefully when thinking that, to the light dusting of hair across his chest, his strength, the solidness of him, like a rock; he grounded me. Even the scar on his shoulder, without which I might never have met him. I slipped off my shirt to match him and let it fall.

Shoes next, me first, then him, followed by socks, each of us watching the play of muscles across the other's back and arms as we bent and balanced. I reached for my belt and unbuckled it, then pulled it completely free of my trousers and immediately dropped it… he had let me restrain him a few times, which I had quite enjoyed, but I didn't think that now would be a good time to remind him. Anyway, I hadn't liked his not being able to touch me; I wanted to feel his hands on me tonight.

I waited for him, but he shook his head.

"Go on," he said, his voice low and a little unsteady; he was leaning back against the door again. I quirked a brow, but obeyed him, unfastening my trousers then pushing them down and kicking them off, before straightening slowly to stand before him in only my underwear.

His gaze was running up and down my legs and over my body. I closed my eyes and could feel his desire as if it were brushing against my skin. When I opened them, he was unclasping his belt.

He pushed his jeans down and off and I took a step towards him without even thinking about it. He tipped his head to the side in query and I stopped. "Together?" he suggested. I nodded. Moments later we were both naked.

I stepped forward again and this time he did the same, raising an arm as he reached me to wrap his hand around the back of my neck. He stretched up as I leaned down and then we were kissing, devouring each other, all of the emotion and upheaval of the day working its way out of our bodies as I silently promised to treat him with more respect in the future and he made it clear that he would never leave me, that I could believe the tattoo.

He pressed closer and we were together, fully in contact from our mouths down to our knees. I wrapped my arm around his waist and held him against me, feeling him hard, so very hard, against the top of my thigh. My hand skimmed down his hip automatically, my thumb grazing my initials… I knew what I wanted to do.

"John, will you sit on the bed?"

He turned us both and started backing towards it, his grip keeping me with him each step of the way. When he reached the foot of the bed he sat down, his hands skimming up the backs of my thighs as he reached for me, clearly anticipating what I wanted.

I put my hands on his shoulders and he glanced up, surprised. "Lie back?" I asked him. I was almost sure that he wouldn't have minded if I'd pushed him, but felt it was best to be cautious for a while, until I had worked out exactly what he wanted and what he was happy with. It was unacceptable for John to feel in any way lesser because of me, he was the best person that I had ever known.

He did as I asked and I dropped to my knees, moving between his legs as he lay there. I could feel trembles running through his abdomen as I leaned forward, and briefly pressed my lips against the tattoo before taking a more familiar route and sucking him into my mouth, swallowing around him. John still couldn't do this, although he had tried, but his gag reflex was too strong. Not that I cared, I loved everything he did and it made me proud, in a way, that I could do it despite my previous inexperience. The websites he so mocked had actually provided some useful tips.

I moved my hand to the tattoo as I worked on him, watching as I traced my finger over the letters repeatedly. This was the most incredible thing that he could have given me and I would always regret that the revelation of it had been overshadowed by other events of the day, although the upset had probably been for the best in the end, since it had spurred him into speaking up and I felt more in tune with him and confident of our future than perhaps I ever had. I recalled the occasional silences and shadows to which John had been driven by my behaviour – never again would I let them pass uninvestigated. I knew that I was not good at relationships, that I didn't understand most of the unwritten rules which everyone else seemed to take for granted, but I would make him explain them to me if they mattered to him.

For now, I concentrated on giving him some good associations to go with his gift. It certainly seemed to be working; he was moaning and rocking his hips on the bed as I alternated my technique, swirling my tongue around him in the way I knew he loved, then humming in pleasure as I sank back down along his full length.

"Sherlock!" He was clearly getting close to the edge, his hand grabbing at my hair as he tried to dislodge me. Before today, I might have made him come anyway, confident that he would be back in action before too long. His stamina was actually very impressive in relation to the statistics for men of his age. However, that clearly wasn't what he wanted, so I pulled off and used my left hand to grip and hold him back, moving my mouth to kiss the tattoo again, just to reinforce the good feelings connected with it. If things went according to plan, he'd be turned on just by my looking at it before the month was out.

He was panting, gasping for breath as I slid up the bed until I was level with him, propped up on my elbow as I looked down at his face. I lowered my head to kiss him and he brought up his hand to the back of my head and gripped my hair, returning the kiss passionately before grabbing my left wrist and pulling it off him, raising it above my head as he brought one knee up for leverage and rolled us over.

I was now positioned as he had been earlier, lying back on the bed with my knees bent and my feet on the floor, but he was sitting astride me. He released my wrist and stroked his hand down the full length of my arm as he leaned forward and kissed me, then moved his attention down over my chest until he could dip his head to lick and suck at my nipples, gradually allowing more of his weight to settle as he leaned forward and rocked against me.

The combination of sensations was threatening my concentration. My nipples had never really got any less sensitive, and John's actions still felt as if they might short-circuit my brain, just like the very first time he had done it all those months ago. I had got a little better at coping with the feeling, however, and didn't let it distract me from my ultimate goal.

"Will you let me inside you, John?"

He gave me a brilliant smile. "Lube!" he exclaimed, sitting up before lurching his upper body off the bed, holding out a hand for me to counterbalance him while he rooted through the bag which I had dumped on the floor.

I was going to take that as a 'Yes'.

"Got it," he said, and I pulled him up, sitting up myself at the same time. He already had the bottle open and was soon slicking his hand over me. I leaned back on my hands and tipped my head to the ceiling, closing my eyes to relish the feeling and knowing that even this could not compare with what was about to happen. When I looked again, John was preparing himself, then he simply rose up onto his knees and sank down onto me, one hand holding on to my shoulder, and the other helping to guide me inside him.

He took it slowly, it having been a couple of weeks, and probably also to torture me a little bit, which was fair. I looked down. The sight of part of me being taken into John's body was in my top five list of visual experiences, all of which actually involved him. He seemed to be fascinated by it also, although it was obviously more difficult for him to observe. The vague idea I had entertained of purchasing a large mirror suddenly coalesced into a definite plan. That would make an excellent Christmas present for John, even if it was a few days late.

My thoughts stuttered and failed as he impaled himself on me fully and I fell back onto my elbows, watching his face as he adjusted to the sensation of having me inside him. He was biting his lip, his eyes closed in concentration. He looked absolutely gorgeous.

After a moment, he raised himself slightly, then dropped back down, then he did it again, and again, varying his angle until he found the one which made his head tip back and a loud moan escape his lips.

The sound resonated through me. The louder and more vocal he was, the more my brain seemed to shut down, allowing instincts long buried and unsuspected to the fore. I wanted to roll us, I wanted to be driving into him instead of lying on my back, but I forced myself to stay still. My gaze dropped to the tattoo and I gripped his hips, not trying to control his actions, just following them, my thumb stroking over the letters as he shifted, my initials rising and falling with his movements.

I looked up and he was watching me. "Go on then," he invited.

My hands flexed before I could stop them. "Are you sure? Don't say that just for me, I want you to be happy."

He smiled, but then shivered as he sank down onto me again, his eyes falling closed for a moment. "Do it. I want you to." He looked at me. "Fuck me, Sherlock. Do it now."

I growled and sat up, wrapping my arms around his back to support him and focusing power in my legs, using my leverage from the floor to shift us further up the bed as I twisted, until John was lying with his head on a pillow and me looming over him, still buried deeply inside his body.

I lifted his right leg over my shoulder and pushed another pillow under his hips, leaving his left leg down so that I could see my mark as I rocked into him, rubbing my thumb over it before sliding my hand across to stroke John in time with my movements.

He arched his back when I gripped him and I could see the tendons in his neck straining, his hands grabbing fistfuls of the quilt as he tried to deal with all the sensations... this wasn't going to take long.

My brain was shutting down, the constant swirling vortex of facts, theories and connections getting further away and quieter, so blessedly quiet as my head filled instead with John's face, his voice, the heat of his body surrounding me so tightly, so very, very tightly, until he was everywhere and there was nothing else, just John wrapped around me, body and mind, bringing me the peace only he could ever provide.

I dropped my left hand from where it had been holding his leg and reached down, prising the quilt out of his grasp and linking our fingers together. His grip was desperate and he looked at me, panting, his body shaking and echoing the trembles I could feel running through my own.

"Sherlock, I..." He gasped for breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before focusing again, although it was clearly an effort. I could feel the tightening in my body and tried to hold on, to wait for him.

"Together?" he said.

I nodded and thrust into him fiercely, my pace speeding up, watching his face, listening to his sounds, until he squeezed my fingers and we both let go.

He was loud; shouting that he loved me, that he was mine. I focused on my name on his skin just before my eyes forced themselves closed and I could hear my voice answering him, but I couldn't even tell what I was saying. It was glorious.

It was some time before we recovered enough to clean up and then we just got into bed, even though it was still quite early. We were both still behind on our sleep, and this had been a very busy day.

"What did I say this time?" I wasn't actually sure I wanted to know, as I was confident that it would have been something shockingly possessive, but John loved that he could do this to me, he seemed to view the ability to switch off my brain as one of the crowning achievements of his life.

"You said I belonged to you," he told me, and I groaned, dropping my head to his shoulder.

"Bloody hell." It was an expression I had rarely used before meeting him. "I'm sorry, John."

He laughed. "So I take it you like your present?"

I smiled at him, thankful that he wasn't angry. "Maybe Christmas isn't so bad. Perhaps next year you could go for somewhere I won't mind other people seeing?" It was worth a try.

"Forget it." He was yawning. "This was strictly a one-time thing, for your eyes only."

 _Too right_ , I thought smugly and he chuckled.

"You might as well have said that out loud," he pointed out. "But you're right." He stroked his fingers through my hair one last time, before settling his hand on my neck. "I _am_ yours, Sherlock," he said. "Yours, and no-one else's. Always." He shrugged. "It's fair to say that I belong to you."

I shook my head. "We belong to each other," I corrected. He smiled, but was already fading into sleep. I looked at his beloved face. _One day, I'm going to have those words engraved and put them around your finger_ , I thought. I kissed his head, and pulled him towards me, allowing myself to join him in slumber.

Everything was right.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I realise that there are questions which I have not resolved in this story, such as Sherlock's father etc, but I felt there had really been enough talking ( _to say the least_ , you may be thinking) and it was time to move on.

I have hugely enjoyed revisiting this world, so who knows - I've left myself a little temptation to return one day... Thanks for reading!


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